He likes to run most of his time. Then one day he could run no more. His front legs stiff like dead branches. His back legs weak as noodles, but he never had any complaint. That was my Samson. His soft brown eyes filled with love and loyalty, loyalty from Hawaii to California and through four changes of habitat, which he helped to make into homes.
I miss his bark at the door requesting entrance. I miss the click of his nails on the floor as he would pace at night to look for just the right comfortable place for his sore bones. I miss his gentle spirit, never protesting when Maggie ate from his food dish. I miss his dismay when another dog would make a threatening growling sound, “What was that about,” he seemed to say as he sought the security of my side. Mostly I so miss his presence especially when I pass the place where his bed used to be. He filled the house with his warmth and complete trust.
Though, toward the end, he mostly slept, he slept quietly with the occasional soft snore. But it’s even quieter now and there is an unfamiliar chill. I put his bed in the trash. I buried him under a shady Elm tree. I shall not bury the memory of the delight he brought to my life. This special and perfect creation of God, whom I named, Samson.